Yet, suddenly and unaccountably, out of the damp ground, between moss and dry leaves, rise up the marvelous toadstools; some thick, deformed, and fleshy; others tall and slender with ringed stems and bright-colored hoods. Strange dream-figures of the woods are they! There may be seen also, on moldering tree-trunks, countless, small white growths with little black tops, as if they had been burnt. Some wise folk consider them a kind of fungus. But Johannes learned better. "They are little candles. They burn in still autumn nights, and the goblin mannikins sit beside them, and read in little books." Windekind taught him that, on such a still autumn day, while Johannes dreamily inhaled the faint odor of the forest soil. "What makes the leaves of the sycamore so spotted with black?" "Oh, the goblins do that, too," said Windekind. "When they have been writing nights, they throw out in the morning, over the leaves, what is left in their ink bottles. They do not like this tree. Crosses, and poles for contribution bags, are made out of sycamore wood." Johannes was inquisitive about the busy little goblins, and he made Windekind promise to take him to one of them. He had already been a long time with Windekind, and he was so happy in his new life that he felt very little regret over his promise to forget all he had left behind. There were no times of anxiety or of loneliness--times when remorse wakens. Windekind never left him, and with him he was at home in any place. He slept peacefully, in the rocking nest of the reed-bird that hung among the green stalks, although the bittern roared and the raven croaked so ominously. He felt no fear on account of pouring rains nor shrieking winds. At such times he took shelter in hollow trees or rabbit-holes, and crept close under Windekind's mantle, and listened to the voice which was telling him stories. And now he was going to see the goblins. It was a good day for the visit--so very still. Johannes fancied he could already hear their light little voices, and the tripping of their tiny feet, although it was yet midday. The birds were nearly all gone--the thrushes alone were feasting on the scarlet berries. One was caught in a snare. There it hung with outstretched wings, struggling until the tightly pinioned little foot was nearly severed. Johannes quickly released it, and with a joyful chirp the bird flew swiftly away. The toadstools were having a chatty time together. "Just look at me," said one fat devil-fungus. "Did you ever see anything like it? See how thick and white my stem is, and see how my hood shines! I am the biggest of all. And that in one night!" "Bah!" said the red fly-fungus. "You are very clumsy--so brown and rough. I sway on my slender stalk like a grass stem. I am splendidly red, like the thrush-berry and gorgeously speckled. I am handsomer than any of you." "Be still!" said Johannes, who had known them well in former days. "You are both poisonous."